


oh baby here comes the sound

by Trojie



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Touring, Unsafe Sex, Van Days, somehow weirdly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10010039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: It's not a skill thing - Ray can jam around on a bouncy, aggressive riff if he wants to and Frank can tune down and chug if the mood takes him, sure - it's just that, when they're noodling around on their own, the melodies that sit in their chests like heartbeats are night and day.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [immoral_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/gifts).



> Because she understands me and understands that I'm a nerd who just likes an excuse to objectify the way these two guys handle their ... equipment.

Frank and Ray should be a Sharks and Jets situation.

Anyone who tries to tell you there's no war between punks and metalheads anymore has never walked into a record store wearing the wrong t-shirt. Frank's been put head-first in dumpsters for that shit, so you can't tell him they're all bonded by the simple joy of music. Fuck no.

And that's why it should be the Sharks and the fucking Jets. But it isn't.

They just should not mesh at all, their styles are so different, and they've both grown up, as musicians, with this idea that the shit they like should be incompatible. It's not a skill thing - Ray can jam around on a bouncy, aggressive riff if he wants to and Frank can tune down and chug if the mood takes him, sure - it's just that, when they're noodling around on their own, the melodies that sit in their chests like heartbeats are night and day. 

Have you fucking seen Ray Toro play though? He fuckin' - when Frank first met him he was playing drums, then bass, and he was just this fuzzy-headed glasses-wearing dork with a big grin, and then Frank lost track of him for a while until someone said oh yeah, Toro, he's playing guitar for that new group, chemical something.

Somehow Pencey Prep got hold of My Chem's shitty-ass demo, and it turned out Ray Toro could fucking _shred._

Frank made them play that tape til it wore thin and broke. The rest of Pencey didn't get it, y'know? Punk and metal, that's an old war, and all of them have fought it in grimy pits and shitty house parties and late night shows they were too young to be at. 

But Frank always kinda thought it was bullshit, the posturing and the rivalries and the idea that playing guitar one way or the other somehow takes more chops. And then when he finally caught up with Toro again, he was the same way - he didn't care how Frank played, or what Frank played, just that he did play. That they could play together.

***

Ray likes watching Frank's hands on his fretboard. It's as simple as that. He forms his chords differently to Ray, more economical, doesn't have to cram his fingers in so tight down at the fifteenth fret but can't stretch for sixth from the second the way Ray can, either. He barres like he's trying to strangle his Epiphone because he doesn't have the leverage to do it gentle, rests his forearm on the top of the body and balances with his pinkie to pick and mute because if he tries to do it from the bridge he ends up fouling his strings- but he doesn't even think of it like that, not like Ray does. 

Because Frank plays with the kind of instinctive burning fire that Ray, who always begins every practice session with fifteen determined minutes of scales, every day since the first time he picked up a guitar, had always figured wasn't real. Not until this short kid with gross dreads and terrible fucking sweatpants barrelled into his life, and then into the studio his band were recording in, and suddenly Ray was watching a whole new way to play music, and couldn't look away. Hasn't been able to look away since. 

Since they started actually touring, that's not the only thing he's been looking at.

***

Frank gets offstage drenched in sweat and only three quarters of it is his, he's still half-carrying Gerard, who's been mouthing at his neck for the last half of the set, and his hands are shaking when he puts his Les Paul in its flight case. When he looks up, Ray's smiling at him. 

Frank's been hard since Headfirst for Halos, there's something that just _gets him_ about seeing Ray play that fucking killer riff like it's no big deal. He clicks the case shut and takes the moment while his hands are at crotch height to surreptitiously try and get his junk to stop pressing so damn hard against his zipper, but yeah, that's an epic fucking waste of time. 

Gerard's already gone, hunting for someone who shall remain anonymous but whose name rhymes with 'dude, you'll only get hurt' - not that you can get Gerard to listen - and Ray's smile is warm and sweet. They're in the fucking van tonight, gonna be driving through the night, trading off shifts behind the wheel and packing themselves in between merch boxes and gear. There's no way.

Frank tries though, slides up to Ray with his fingers still stinging and swipes his mohawk out of his eyes and says, 'So, Toro -'

'Unless it's about beer or sleep I don't wanna hear it,' says Ray, but his eyes flick to Mikey, too close, sticking by them probably mostly because they can all hear Otter banging around just outside, packing his shit and swearing, and that wakes Frank up. 

The last thing either of them wants is for this to get out. Things are already volatile enough in this goddamn band, on this goddamn tour, and they can't - neither of them can risk it. Neither of them will risk it. Not for a quick fucking handjob. Not for anything, because it would cost them everything. 

'Draw straws for the first drive, then,' says Frank. 'But no-one's getting wasted, okay, we gotta cross a fucking state line tonight, and I for one wanna live.'

(They just don't let Gerard drive any more. It's the easiest solution to that little problem.)

'I'll take the first shift,' says Mikey. He shuts the lid on his P bass and hefts the case up, stacks it with the rest of their stuff to go in the trailer. 'Just lemme find Gee.'

It's a toss-up, which of finding Gerard mid-mess with the lead singer of the headliner they're touring with, or 'helping' Otter play tetris with his drums and the trailer, is the soft option, really, but Mikey usually gets in first and picks the Gerard door. Maybe the risk of seeing his brother's dick is still better than the way Otter yells, who knows. But he disappears and that leaves Ray and Frank looking at each other. 

Ray picks up his own guitar case and then reaches for Frank's, which means leaning into Frank's space, means there's a split second where they're so close Frank can smell the tail end of Ray's deodorant and the last faint lingering traces of his shampoo under stagelight sweat, and Ray brushes a soft, dick-jerking kiss across Frank's lip-ring. 

'Sounded good out there tonight, Iero,' he says softly, and then he's gone too, out into the parking lot through the loading bay door. 

Frank has to grab the edge of the shitty-ass trestle table that was holding most of their gear, and take a fucking breath. If he has a wet dream tonight all over whichever box of shitty t-shirts he ends up curled around, it's not gonna be his fault. 

***

They've been trying out some of their new material on this tour, and it's going down fucking well. Maybe supporting act is as far as they're ever gonna climb, but if anyone does buy their new album, the track they're gonna be using to cover up the noises of their jerk-off sessions is definitely this one. 

Fuck knows it's what's been playing through _Frank's_ head the last few times he's managed to get his hand on his dick. And on stage, it's all he can fucking do to stay on his feet and hit his marks when Ray plays that opening riff. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he's on his knees before his pick even hits his strings.

'Sister, I'm not much -' Gerard starts crooning, and Frank's still standing this time but he's gotta pull it together, man, because he needs his braincells in his actual head and blood supply to his fingers if he's gonna keep up on this one. He tears his eyes off Ray and attacks his line like it insulted his mother, but he can't look away too long. Their eyes meet and they're synced across the stage by the time Gerard is bellowing about how he wouldn't front the scene if you paid him, swinging his hips and leading the audience like the Pied fucking Piper. 

Fuck knows what Frank's fingers are doing, he's too involved in watching Ray's. They play their set and he dumps most of a bottle of water all over his head, flings the rest into the crowd, and wants to punch the air and start a fight and get laid and get wasted all at once.

Gerard tells the audience they're all beautiful motherfuckers and thanks them and then the lights go down, and they're done for the night

They're still in the fucking van tonight but they don't have to leave til later, and Mikey manages to catch Gerard before he can sneak off, and Otter's already gone, which means they have to pack his shit, the lazy fucker, but they end up in a bar and Frank hits the head pretty much first thing because has to piss like a racehorse, seriously, he's not even thinking of anything but his bladder except then Toro materialises beside him at the urinal and his eyes are big and dark and Frank's cock starts to get hard while he's holding it. 

They don't - they never do this. It's too public. 

Except, 'You gotta show me how you did that frigging -' Ray starts like they're talking shop at soundcheck but he's pushing Frank into a stall as he says it. Fuck it, Frank's pants are already round his knees, the door clatters behind them and Ray's hitching Frank up against him with one of those big, solid, gorgeous hands flat on the small of his back. 'I couldn't see it from the other side but you did something new, man, you did -'

'Shut up and fucking kiss me, Toro,' Frank mock-growls into his face, pulling him down basically by the hair. 'I'll give you a guitar lesson tomorrow,' and then they're kissing and possibly it's Ray's fingers Frank fantasises about when he does get a chance but damn his mouth's talented too. 

Frank finds himself fighting the instinct to close his eyes, because Ray's so close and the lights are on and Frank just wants to see, for once, but Ray's literally just wrapped his hand around Frank's cock when the bathroom door crashes open again and that's the unmistakeable sound of Gerard unable to walk by himself and Mikey psyching himself up to hold his brother's hair back while he barfs into a toilet and both Frank and Ray freeze. 

It's the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes of Frank's life.

***

They're kicking their heels at soundcheck, waiting for the tech setting Otter's kit up to finish spinning wingnuts and checking heights. Everything is running behind at this venue, although most of the delay is the poor guy trying to fight Otter's belligerent micromanagement. Ray's tuning, because a moment spent checking your tuning is never wasted, not really paying attention to what the others are doing, until he hears the pop of an amp turning on and the momentary crackle of a lead getting jammed into a jack, and then he looks up. 

The tech is still doing something to a crash cymbal, so clearly it's not time to get started yet. 

Frank's over by his stack, though. He cranks both his tone pots up to full, stomps on his fuzz pedal, smiles secretively down at his hands and then he's flailing wildly at his strings, something that resolves into a riff Ray takes a moment to realise he recognises. Not quite this version of it, no, he learned the Metallica cover, but yeah, he knows this song.

Otter turns around. Ray can't hear him over the noise of Frank, who doesn't have a microphone yet but is determinedly bellowing about how he'll be seeing you in hell, but he's pretty obviously saying something along the lines of _not the fucking Misfits again_. 

Gerard's giggling. The tech, clearly sensing that he's got an opening, speeds up his last few checks. And Ray, because he can't resist it, plugs his lead in and flicks his amp on, meets Frank's eyes and joins in. 

_Die, die, die my darling,_ they yell at each other gleefully across the tiny stage. Otter stomps off just as the tech finally dusts his hands off.

***

By the time they do get a motel night, Frank's got a medical case of blue balls and has graduated to weird fucking daydreams about sucking Ray off while he's playing a solo, which doesn't even work because there'd be a goddamn Les Paul literally in the way of, like, everything, but whatever, Ray can probably play a lap steel, he can play every other damn thing with strings. And if not, he can learn. Frank has needs, okay?

Motel nights suck less than van nights in one way, because you get to actually stretch out on a horizontal surface, but they suck more than a van night when the fucking A/C doesn't work, because you're still stuck in a tiny box with four other sweaty dudes. 

Gerard and Mikey share one bed, because, well, a) it's Gerard and Mikey and b) no-one else can deal with their stench this far into a tour. Otter is a fuckin' giant and also he kicks, steals blankets, and generally sucks as a bedmate, so he usually gets the couch, and that leaves Frank and Ray in the other bed. Ray's a good dude to share with, he's not a pillow hog, doesn't snore if you can make him roll onto his side rather than his back, and only smells, like, a normal amount for a dude in what Frank's pretty sure is the second sweatiest profession after pro-footballer. 

Also Frank has a ginormous fuckin' boner for the guy and while normally that would be all kinds of awkward, it's kind of mutual for reasons Frank still doesn't understand but is not gonna complain about, hell no. 

Of course, you can't just like, get down and dirty with your bandmates in the room, but somewhere around 2am Ray rolls over and spoons up against Frank on the full, chest to Frank's shoulders and dick to Frank's ass and big hand on Frank's hip, and Frank shivers. 

''Kay?' Ray murmurs softer than a whisper in Frank's ear, and Frank nods, lets the rustle of the pillowcase be his answer because they can't risk non-essential words. 

Ray eases Frank's boxers down under the curve of his ass, nudges him til he half-rolls onto his front and brings one knee up a bit, so he's spread as wide as he can go while still maintaining his plausible deniability, and rolls up against him. 

Ray's dick is wet already, and it slots up against Frank, the slick tip of it bumping at his hole, and fuck yes. Frank lies as still as he can but he's still shivering, full-bodied, desperate. You can be fucked in the ass with no prep if you go very, very slow, and you relax, and your partner is careful. Fortunately for Frank, Ray can be all kinds of careful.

He just pushes. That's all, he just palms Frank's hip and sets the head of his cock in exactly the right spot and pushes, and Frank breathes as slow and as controlled as he can and rides the pounding of his heart and lets it happen the way he knows it will, waits for the pleasure to come the way he knows it will, because it's him and Ray, and they know what they're doing with each other.

See, lead and rhythm isn't the same as lead and follow. Lead and rhythm is point and counterpoint, is give and take, is nothing to do with hierarchy and everything to do with trust. Frank trusts that if he lays it down Ray will pick it up, if he leaves it blank Ray will fill it up, if he lets it hang and squeal feedback into the ether then Ray will pickslide to a halt and meet his eyes and the crowd will go fucking apeshit because from the outside, yeah, maybe it looks a little bit like magic. 

Frank counts time in his head and exhales into his pillow and Ray pushes, waits, pushes, waits, in time with Frank's chest rising and falling, slides his hand down Frank's thigh to where the bruises are coming up from Pansy bashing him when he fell to his knees for the seventy-fifth time this tour. The ripped, white-thread fuzzy knees of his jeans are stained brown-red-pink now from all the blood he's spilled on stages from here all the way back to Jersey. 

Ray's all the way in. 

Frank's been all-in since they looked at each other in breathless fucking lust after playing Monroeville all the way through for the first time, the first guitar part Frank ever wrote for MCR weaving its way around what Ray had already laid down. After _that,_ maybe this was always a foregone fucking conclusion.

The steady heartbeat-kickdrum-tidal thud of Ray fucking him is hypnotising Frank. He's got that angle all perfect to slick past Frank's prostate every roll of his hips or so. Frank's mohawk is in his eyes and over his face, he can feel it move against his lips with every breath he lets out, still struggling to keep them even, not to pant, to give the game away. 

Getting fucked in the ass is like the best bruise ever, the deepest, the most settling ache. It puts Frank somewhere else in his head, somewhere good and warm and quiet. He pushes his knee further forward so he's almost all the way on his belly, cock rutting between his own skin and the sheets, and okay the friction's nice but what he wants is the way it opens him up wider and he can feel scratch of Ray's pubes against him where he's starting to get sore. 

He barely manages to strangle the moan that time. 

Ray's hand slides underneath him (he moves Frank so easy, so fucking steady and solid, fuck), wraps around Frank's cock and Frank's eyes start to water, he wants, he fucking wants so bad to roll them over and ride Ray's dick and hear the sounds he'd make, watch him come apart, but he can't. They can't. 

Sad but true (hah) Frank's never seen Ray's O-face. Never heard him make a single goddamn sound when he gets off. Knows what Ray's come tastes like, sure, but they've never done it in a place it was safe to have the light on or to look at each other or to say a fucking word. That bar bathroom was the closest they've ever got, and it was too much of a risk - they came so close to getting caught. Frank knows it was fucking dumb, knows they won't try it again. 

But it's okay. Frank gets to see the face Ray makes when Gerard's voice drops away and he's got eight bars of solo stretching away in front of him and a band that'll let him do what he was born to - he gets to hear the sounds Ray can coax from his humbuckers, and fuck you if you don't think that's orgasmic, or pure, or personal. And right now he's got the spread-wide hot stretch of Ray's dick all up in him and he screws his face into the pillow and rolls back into it, grinding between Ray and the mattress and clenching his fingers so hard in the sheets he can feel the texture of the mattress underneath. 

He's so close. He's _so close_. Ray must feel the hitch in his breathing because he nuzzles close, pushes harder, deeper, and catches the side of Frank's mouth in a kiss that's riskily visible but Frank can't resist turning his head to get the rest of it, twisting himself into a pretzel and getting Ray's tongue sliding against his and his airway just that tiny bit choked up and oh, oh fuck, _fuck_. 

Ray swallows the noises, and Frank is making fucking noises. He can't help himself. He unloads into the sheets and the sudden stink of come is like acid in his nostrils, but he can't stop, doesn't want to stop, squirms onto his belly on the full with the wet mess of his orgasm smearing underneath him and spreads his legs and Ray knows what he wants and gives it to him. 

It's another dumbass move because there's no plausible deniability to this pose but the others are drunk and snoring and Frank's tired of caution, oversensitive and shivery and six feet over the edge has always been his style anyway. 

Ray gets his knees under him and starts to pound Frank properly, latches onto the nape of his neck with his teeth and blankets Frank's body with his own and fucks hard and fast like he's only got eight bars left to do it in. 

When he tries to pull out afterwards, careful and gentle and clearly too fucking beat for an encore, Frank just wiggles backwards with him til he gives up and wraps his arms around Frank's shoulders, cock slowly going soft, Frank's brain fuzzing into sleep like the quiet, background hiss of an unplugged jack. 

***

They pull apart in the night, half-awake and reluctant, but they might as well have not bothered - everyone's still completely passed out when Frank, trying to be quiet and get up without moving too much, wakes Ray up. 

The room is warm and still, quiet like a church if a church was full of snoring, homeless bums. Ray risks sneaking a hand out to pet Frank's hip and Frank squirms. Ray's fingertips slip, graze the curve of Frank's ass instead, and he suddenly thinks, remembers, christ, they made a mess last night. 

Frank remembers too, if the smoky look he throws Ray over his shoulder is any indication. Ray gives him a nudge, and he slides out of bed to pad into the bathroom. The shower turns on. 

Gerard groans at the noise and flops over onto his other side, but otherwise, to all intents and purposes he might as well be fucking dead. Mikey's an even more convincing corpse, didn't even flinch even when Gerard's hand smacked him in the chest. Someone farts loudly. Ray lies there with his eyes half open and his body still half-asleep and feels good, grossed-out and affectionate all at once, mixed in with the happy brain chemicals of having gotten laid last night. 

The shower shuts off and Frank comes back in with a towel wrapped around himself. Ray finds himself idly wondering how the fuck it stays up, given how little of Frank there is for it to cling to. He watches Frank find clothes. The bruises all over his back and down his thighs from the stage have new friends - he fumbles to hold the towel up as he bends down to grab his bag, and Ray can see when he pushes his fingers into the ghost-marks of Ray's hold on him last night and smiles secretly down at his stuff. 

Ray would feel bad for bruising Frank if Frank didn't like it - just like he used to feel bad for wanting to suggest tweaks to Frank's guitar lines until he saw how Frank's face lit up when he tried them. Now they're both all over each other's riffs at rehearsals, and two weeks ago Frank leapt on Ray during To The End and the resulting collision left Ray black and blue all over his right side and okay, it fucking hurt, but part of him was sad when the marks faded to yellow and disappeared.

They're rubbing off on each other, is the thing, and not just literally. 

It takes three quarters of an hour, a coffee run, a pillow thrown at Otter's head, and the sheets physically ripped off of Mikey's comatose string-bean body when he refuses to play ball, to get everyone up and in the van for the last leg. Four more shows. Ray is so ready to be done with this clusterfuck of a tour. 

When they're in, though, and the doors are slammed and everyone is at least pretending to wear their seatbelt and almost definitely calling Ray 'mom' sarcastically in their heads (he's used to it), and the sun is shining in the grimy windows, and Frank's got his feet on the dashboard …

… then Ray remembers he's in a kickass band, on tour, and he can't help drumming a happy little rhythm on the steering wheel. 

***

They've been home two days, Frank has finally managed to sleep long enough that his eyeballs don't feel boiled any more, and he's just put the last load of laundry in the dryer, when his phone goes off.

'Hey Toro,' he says, pinning his phone between his face and his shoulder, and hefting his now-empty bag. 'You get home okay?' Mikey drew the short straw for the final drive back and dropping them all off at the various places they're crashing. Ray had pretty much been asleep in the back of the van when they pulled up outside Frank's parents' place, which is where he's stuck for a while til he finds somewhere else. Or maybe not, if Brian can get them another round of shows as fast as he says he can. 

'Yeah,' Ray stifles a yawn, though, which makes Frank snort. 'Hey, you wanna come over and jam?'

Three nights ago Frank had been the closest he's ever been to wanting someone to take his damn guitar off him and just, like, not bring it back. If you'd asked him, even yesterday, if he wanted to jam, he'd have laughed in your face. But as soon as Ray says it, it's like his fingers aren't sore any more and he doesn't have a bruised tailbone from landing on his ass wrong on stage.

'Hell yes,' he says, slinging his empty duffle on his bed and immediately reaching for his gigbag. 'I'll be right over.'

'Awesome,' says Ray. 'I've got the place to myself right now, bring a practice amp. We can get loud,' he adds, and hangs up.

The best part about Ray is Frank doesn't know if that's meant to be a come-on or not, and he's up for it either way. He unearths a little 30 watt Fender he hasn't used since they got a practice space that wasn't someone's garage anyway. 

***

Frank's crouching down on Ray's bedroom floor, doing something to his fuzz pedal, when Ray just can't wait any longer. He puts his Les Paul down and leans over into Frank's space. 'Y'know,' he murmurs, 'there's other ways we could be loud, too.'

He touches Frank's hair softly. Frank grins up at him, wicked under his eyelashes. 'Oh,' he says innocently. 'You wanna crank it up to eleven, huh?' He lets the guitar slide off his lap gently onto the floor, though, with a little pat he probably doesn't even realise he's giving it, and shoulders his way in between Ray's knees. 

'I wanna crank it up as far as it'll go,' says Ray honestly. He grabs Frank's hands off his thighs and pulls him up til they're both standing, because he's had enough of this wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am bullshit. 'Come to bed with me?'

'Fuck yeah,' Frank breathes. 

The curtains are open and the window is too, and Ray can smell, like, sunshine and warm summer air and the fact that Frank showered this morning when they fall onto his bed together. He rolls onto his back and pulls Frank with him, on top where he can kiss him without being worried he's gonna - 

'Fucking hell, Toro, I'm not Tinkerbell, you're not gonna crush me,' says Frank, wriggling and giggling his ridiculous stoner giggle but not rolling off. He ducks down to mouth at Ray's jawline. Ray lets his legs fall open so Frank can settle between them, and starts pulling at the hem of Frank's shirt. 

When Frank gets with the program and leans up to pull it off, Ray's breath hitches. He has to touch, he just has to. He hasn't really felt anything in his fingertips for years, but he traces them over Frank's ink all the same, then lays his palm down flat, because that is sensitive, that he does feel with, can judge pressure and vibration, and Frank's heart under Ray's hand is fluttering like one of the birds on his hips. 

'So that's why you wanted me up here, huh?' Frank says, a little breathless but a lot cocky still. 'To ogle me. Want me to ride you?' he asks. 'Give you a good fucking view?' He's hard and he's rolling his cock against Ray's, already a rhythm Ray wants to follow.

'Later,' says Ray, because his parents are away for the weekend and his brothers have, y'know, jobs that have allowed them to at least rent if not own their own places, and so there is going to be time for _later_ , he can say that now. 'Thought maybe you could fuck me, first,' he says, trying to keep his voice like, nonchalant and shit. 

Frank's eyes pinch shut for a second like he has to pull himself together, but when he opens them he immediately starts palming Ray's dick through his jeans. 'Think I can probably manage that, yeah,' he says, grinning. 

It feels really good and really … transgressive, or something, fuck, Ray maybe needs to stop listening to Gerard's rambling stage speeches, to be naked with someone in your childhood bed with the freaking windows open. Frank is stroking Ray's dick softly, sitting back on his haunches and watching Ray breathe into it and smiling. 'You got lube, right?' he asks. 

Ray rolls his eyes and stretches out to the bedside cabinet to grab it. And it turns out watching Frank finger you open is even hotter than watching him fret barre chords, but the face of concentration he makes is exactly the same. It's so goddamn unfair that Ray's only seeing this for the first time _now_ after they've been screwing around for months and at the same time maybe thank God Ray hasn't seen this before because he's gonna be popping inappropriate boners at rehearsal for sure after this. 

Frank pulls his fingers out and sits his wet hand on Ray's hip, pulls Ray's thighs til he's splayed wide with one leg awkwardly up, and then stretches out over him and buries his dry hand in Ray's hair. 'You ready?' he says, and it's not a whisper and it's not down the dead mic and it's not a joke, it's honest and it's out loud. 

Ray's voice doesn't work any more, all of a sudden, but he nods. Frank smiles down at him and kisses him quickly, just a clumsy brush of their faces together that drags the metal of his lip ring against Ray's wet, panting mouth and shocks a noise out of him. 

When Frank fucks into Ray it melts him. Melts both of them, and for all Ray's been wanting to _see_ Frank, he can't force himself to keep his eyes open. Sensation strobes, breaks up like a kaleidoscope, Frank fucks like a bunny and Ray's legs fall open wide like he's pulling one of Frank's stage moves, flat to the mattress, spine bending, just … just channelling what he's feeling. 

He can hear, though, he can hear everything, every noise Frank makes and God he makes a lot of them, that treble whine through his nose filling up the high end and how he grunts _fuck_ and _shit_ and Ray's name lower, spreading out his octaves, and further under that there's the flat bombastic kick-drum of their skin slapping together, and Ray clutches at Frank's shoulders and adds his own lines, fucks his hips up to meet Frank's. It feels so right, the rhythm Frank's setting. 

'Yeah, there you go,' says Frank after a while, when Ray's wound up about as tight as he'll go. 'C'mon, Toro, wanna see you lose it, man, wanna hear you, c'mon, _c'mon_ -' and he wraps his hand around Ray's dick and starts jerking him, counterpoint, beat-matched and in sync. Pushing Ray the way he needs to be pushed, setting it up for him, giving him every goddamn thing he needs so that what they're making together will be perfect.

Ray slams into orgasm and Frank, fucking hell - like always, every time since the first time - Frank follows his lead. 

***

Ray's lips are against the fuzzy, need-a-buzz nape of Frank's neck, where the mohawk needs a tidy-up, the sides starting to grow out, and Ray's crazy epic curls are sticking to Frank's cheek, and fuck, they're such a pair of cock-rock cliches, Frank loves it.

He loves that the Iron Maiden shirt Ray sleeps in is scratchy between his shoulderblades. He loves the garnet red eyeshadow smeared all over his pillow. He loves that he knows for a fact that not only is _he_ a better guitarist than every Metallica-shirt-wearing asshole in every record shop who ever called him a faggot growing up, but he's fucking one who'd make them cream their pretentious unwashed jeans. 

There's a lot of bullshit floating around about music, about guitar players, about aggression and masculinity and dominance, and Frank doesn't care about any of it, and neither does Ray.

Maybe the bullshit didn't stick because deep down, neither of them is a fighter. No. Both of them, they're the other thing.


End file.
